L'histoire d'un homme en noir
by Nils Jansen
Summary: The story of Mr. X.
1. Until the Fat Lady Sings

An apocryphal story says that Adolf Hitler, a man responsible for the slaughter of millions, was frightened by encounters he had with a mysterious man who would come and visit him alone. Some speculate that Hitler's visitor may have been a "Man in Black."

I can neither confirm nor deny that happened.

There's a similar story about Winifred Wagner, daughter-in-law of the composer Richard Wagner and alleged lover of Adolf Hitler. Just a few years before her death, she received a visitation from a Man in Black. It happened only once, towards the end of her life. She was terrified of him at first sight, but not because of the color of his suit. In exchange for him keeping quiet about her more intimate associations with the man whom the Wagner family called "Uncle Wolf," she agreed that the man could attend performances at the Bayreuth Festival _gratis_. For life.

One that probably won't last long.

I can confirm that happened. But I will deny it.

Following a recent series of incidents that involved one of the alien bounty hunters, I met my overly- idealistic FBI contact outside the Kennedy Center after a performance of Wagner's _Die Walkure_. He asked me if I enjoyed the opera, but he didn't even smile when I told him that I had never slept better. An old joke, along with the "fat lady" line I threw in, but what I told him had an element of truth.

In the darkness of a theater, or reclining in a chair with my turntable or CD player, listening to opera can help me forget about my life in the shadows. When I least expect it, opera can also force me to remember it with deeper clarity, and to contemplate the idealism that slowly drew me into the games of The Syndicate.


	2. Changing Times

**Department of Justice Building  
10 September 1968**

"In times like these, we need more of your people in The Bureau," said Hoover, pointing directly at me. "This country has changed in ways people could not have imagined just a few years ago, especially with the work of people like the late Dr. King."

A man in his late-thirties or early-forties pulled a packet of cigarettes from the breast pocket of his suit jacket.

"We need more intelligent men of your kind to do the work that needs done for our country," added Associate Director Tolson, seated directly to his right.

As he removed a cigarette from the packet, the other man said, "We need more intelligent men, period." He placed the cigarette in his mouth and lit it.

Hoover's wide-set eyes glared at the man for a moment before turning back to me. "Mr LeRoi, there are certain elements distorting the dream Dr. King so eloquently spoke about."

The smoking man glanced at Hoover with sardonically hooded eyelids.

"As you know," Tolson started, "The Panthers, along with other elements of the far left, pose a threat to the American way of life. So-called 'moderates' on the left are giving moral and financial support to the Panthers. If these limousine liberals have their way, their actions will fragment America even further."

Hoover continued Tolson's soliloquy with one of his own. "These are dangerous times, Mr. LeRoi. We already have others working to defame these so-called moderate liberals, mainly whites whose sense of guilt leads them to develop a misguided romantic view of Third World Communists like Ho Chi Minh and Ernesto Guevara. However, we also need people who can infiltrate the Panthers. We believe that your background is well-suited in helping us fulfill our goal. Needless to say, there's also the obvious qualification given to you by God."

The smoking man coughed. I'm not sure Hoover and Tolson bought it.

"If we can get someone like you on the inside to bring down the Panthers," Hoover continued, "maybe it will have a domino effect on other radical groups that threaten us."

"What do you see as my role?" I asked.

"You have a great deal of charisma," Hoover said. "You could start your own little group. Bring in potential members. Make contacts with some of the big names among the Panthers."

"As in the case of other extremist groups, they're on to our tactics. In a sense," Tolson added. "Still, they end up going after those actually devoted to the cause. You'd be part of our game."

Finally breaking his long silence, the smoking man asked, "Have you ever seen _Yojimbo_, Mr. LeRoi?"

Before I could answer, Hoover rolled his eyes. "Oh, Jesus, Spender. What's one of those artsy Japanese movies have to do with infiltrating the Panthers?"

"Everything." The man exahaled some smoke. "I suggest, as part of his preparation, that Mr. LeRoi view it."

Tolson asked, "Is this another one of your crazy ideas, Spender?"

"If you don't like my suggestion, I will contact the Library of Congress myself and arrange a private screening for Mr. LeRoi." He took a drag and looked my direction. "I understand that Mr. LeRoi enjoys opera, so I'm sure he wouldn't be adverse to seeing Kurosawa's film, being 'artsy' and such." Turning back to Hoover and Tolson, he added, "Provided he hasn't seen it, of course."

"No, sir. I have not."

The smoking man nodded, smiling at Hoover and Tolson. "I think we have an answer."

Hoover grunted. "All right. But he has real work to do after that. And I don't want to hear another lecture about rampant philistinism in The Bureau, either."

As everyone in the conference room rose from their chairs, the smoking man said, "I gave up on that a long time ago." Holding out his cigarette, he added, "Unfortunately, I can't say the same for these."

* * *

For over a year, I would return to Washington on a regular basis to meet with all three men, debriefing them on my findings as "Marcus X." Despite their rank in the Bureau, I knew more about Hoover and Tolson than I did about the third man, who remained an enigmatic presence.

During our meetings, the man known as Spender would recline in his chair, puffing on Morleys like an effete Nazi from some bad war movie. I wondered if he knew something about Hoover and Tolson, which would explain their tolerance of his presence and occasional insouciance.

After one meeting, as Hoover and Tolson continued walking down the hallway, Spender stopped me just outside the door of the meeting room. He asked me, "What do you think of the Black Panthers, Mr. LeRoi?"

"I find their agenda reprehensible, sir. It goes against everything this country stands for."

"Good response." After a pause, he asked, "Do you _hate_ the Panthers?"

After looking at him for a few seconds, mentally searching for a good answer, I said, "I've never thought about hating them."

Spender nodded. "You must not hate your enemies. Becoming preoccupied with hate only makes them more powerful, and you begin to forget _why_ they are your enemies." Turning in the direction of Hoover and Tolson, he added, "It is a lesson many have yet to learn."


	3. The Most Wonderful Time of the Year

**Department of Justice Building  
23 December 1969**

While I still could, I visited family during the Christmas season. The winter climate in Louisiana was certainly better than the bitter cold of Washington DC, to which I eventually became accustomed.

As I was wrapping up some paperwork before my trip, I heard a knock on the doorframe of my office. "Yes?" I asked.

Looking up, I saw Spender. "Merry Christmas, Mr. LeRoi," he said to me.

"Thank you," I replied. "Same to you."

Walking in, he carried a flat box in wrapping paper. Setting it on my desk, he said, "This is to thank you for your work during the year."

I was surprised. A man whose first name and purpose I didn't know had taken the time to get me a gift. "That is very thoughtful of you, sir. But I am just doing my job."

"You sell yourself short." As usual, he removed a packet of Morleys from his suit jacket, pulled out a cigarette, and lit it.

He offered the packet to me this time.

"No thank you," I replied.

Withdrawing the cigarettes and putting them away, Spender pointed at the ashtray on my desk. "Don't you smoke?"

"That's for smokers who visit my office."

"Very thoughtful of you." Smiling ruefully, he added, "Unless you have a visitor who's trying to quit."

"I'm sorry I didn't think to get you a gift," I said.

"I don't need gifts. I find other things in life more rewarding. 'Tis better to give than to receive." He motioned to a chair in front of my desk. I nodded at him, and he sat. "Going home for Christmas, Mr. LeRoi?"

"Yes. To see family in Louisiana."

"Small world, isn't it? I was born in Louisiana myself."

"You have family there?"

Spender shook his head. "They're dead. My father passed away before I was born, and my mother died when I was a young child."

"I'm sorry."

"It isn't your fault. I've never understood why people apologize for deaths for which they are blameless."

"Do you have other family?"

Spender held up his left hand, with a ring on the third finger. "We have one child. A toddler."

"Any other family?"

Spender took a long drag on his cigarette. "Just hers." Almost as an afterthought, he added, "My wife's." After looking around my office a few seconds, he leaned towards me. "I understand you enjoy opera, Mr. LeRoi."

"Yes. German, mainly. Not a huge fan of Italian opera."

"A Wagner man, then."

"And Strauss."

"Ah, yes. The music from _2001_." He paused. "He wrote the waltz from the space station scene?"

"That was Johann. _Richard_ Strauss wrote the music from the sequence with the man-apes, and the astronaut's transformation scene. It's the introduction from _Also Sprach Zarathustra_, a tone poem based on the work by Friederich Nietzsche."

Spender nodded. "Ah, yes. How could I forget that? I know my Nietzsche, but I'm afraid my knowledge of classical music is a bit thin. Even if it's related to Nietzsche. As for Wagner, I could never get into that, anyway. Too bombastic for my tastes, never minding the nauseating nationalistic and racist trash he obliquely inserted into his operas. And then there are the incredible plots. Especially in _The Ring_, where they have the most convoluted familial relationships." Spender leaned back in his chair. "But back to _2001_. What did you think of the concept?"

"How do you mean?"

"The whole notion of finding evidence of the existence of extraterrestrial life, as they did on the Moon."

"It is an intriguing idea, especially the way Kubrick approached it. I appreciated how he didn't pander to the audience. No bug-eyed monsters. No big invasion. Just a sense of the otherworldliness and completely mysterious nature of extraterrestrial life."

Spender looked at me quizzically for a few seconds. I remembered that look from some of our previous meetings, just before he would postulate a seemingly bizarre hypothesis.

This occassion would be no exception.

"You take an intellectual approach to the concept," he started. "Most people completely dismiss the idea, or they buy into every story about little green men they hear in the media."

"I'm sure the day will come when we find out for sure. But that will be a long way off."

Spender's mouth slowly formed one of his trademark sardonic smiles. "What if I were to suggest that the future has already happened?"

I have never been one to become spooked easily, but Spender's enigmatic statement sent a chilly flash throughout my body. "What do you mean?"

"You're a smart man, Mr. LeRoi. I will leave it for you to think about." As he took another drag on his cigarette, I started to wonder if he believed that the Apollo mission had found something on the Moon, like in _2001_. "But I didn't come here to discuss that. As you recall, we were discussing opera before our side conversation about _2001_."

"Yes, we were."

"Perhaps you would be interested in meeting Leonard Bernstein?"

Initially, that question seemed almost as odd as the one he asked about extraterrestrial life. "Yes," I replied, likely sounding confused. "It would be an honor..."

"Don't get too excited. At least not in front of Mr. Hoover." Spender took yet another drag on his cigarette, which started to seem as much punctuation as bad habit. "As you may or may not already know, the FBI has been compiling records on Mr. Bernstein since the 1940s. We have evidence that he associated with far left groups in the past. Communist fronts, like American Youth for Democracy and the American Committee for Spanish Freedom." Another drag, which seemed less theatrical as the others. "More recently, he has become involved in left-leaning causes, including publicly speaking out against our involvement in Vietnam." Obliquely pointing the cigarette in my direction, Spender added, "Your job will be to help us gather intelligence on other political activities of Mr. Bernstein." He placed the cigarette back in his mouth, the tail end of the ash eminating a dull orange flash.

"How's that?"

"Mr. Bernstein's wife is giving a _soiree _next month at their Park Avenue apartment. Its purpose is to establish a legal defense fund for Black Panthers serving time in prison." Reaching into the same coat pocket that held his Morleys, Spender pulled out a folded sheet of high-quality paper, which he handed to me. "Guests will include many of the 'beautiful people' the Bernsteins know, as well as several prominent Panthers." As I unfolded the paper, Spender added, "'Marcus X' will also be in attendance."

I nodded, looking at the invitation.

"The radical appeal of the Panthers has spread like a cancer among the liberal elites in this country, particularly in New York. The Panthers are like the Nazis in their embryonic stage." Another puff on Spender's Morley acted as prelude to a brief history lesson. "As you already know, Wagner's daughter-in-law Winifred sent food and stationary to Hitler while he was imprisoned for leading the Beer Hall Putsch. Within a decade, she had him as a guest at Wahnfried, after he had become Chancellor of Germany. Of course, in that case, _Frau_ Wagner was anti-Semitic, just like her father-in-law and Hitler. And like the very Panthers whom Mr. Bernstein and his wife are supporting, though the Bernsteins themselves are certainly not anti-Semitic." He took a long Morley drag, suppressing another sardonic smile. "I'm sorry if you admire both Wagner and Bernstein, Mr. LeRoi. But making beautiful music can also make ugly politics."

"I understand what needs to be done, sir."

Spender finally smiled again. He must have noticed that I remained stone-faced as he excoriated two of my musical idols. At least with Wagner, I already knew that story. Nevertheless, it was necessary for me to separate my feelings from my duties.

"It's for their own good, anyway." Spender said. "I am certain, however, that Mr. Bernstein will enjoy some conversation with Marcus X. Maybe about music."

'Yes, sir."

"And please dispense with the 'sir,' Mr. LeRoi. You have already proven yourself a worthy colleague." After extinguishing the Morley in my ashtray, Spender got up from the chair. "I look forward to working with you again in the future." As he walked out of the office, he added, "Enjoy your gift, too."

"Thank you," I called out.

As Spender's footsteps faded away, I grabbed the box he had left on my desk. After ripping into the red wrapping. I opened it, folded back the tissue paper, and found a red necktie. It looked similar to the one Spender himself wore to some of our meetings. Unfolding the tie, I started to wonder if Spender's gift represented more than just holiday season goodwill.


	4. That Party at Lenny's

**Park Avenue  
14 January 1970**

The Bernsteins' fundraiser for the Black Panthers remains the most highly-publicized small event I have ever attended. With 90 people crammed into their apartment, it seemed much larger.

Beyond those in attendance at the party, my presence remains virtually unknown. The real Panthers got all the attention, of course, but somebody made sure no one mentioned "Marcus X." Not in Charlotte Curtis' _New York Times_ article, and certainly not in Thomas Wolfe's "time bomb" for the _New Yorker _that June.

As far as the general public is concerned, _Feldmarschall_ Cox's discussion of the Panthers' strategy with Mr. Bernstein and several others is the best-known aspect of the fundraiser. Completely expunged from all accounts, however, was the more low-key conversation the maestro himself had with "Marcus X" as the evening wound down.

By the time I had a chance to meet with him, Bernstein had sunk even lower into his armchair than before. Extending my hand to him, I introduced myself with my alias.

Giving me a haggard expression, he gripped my hand. "Pleased," he grumbled wearily, before taking a drag on his cigarette.

"Tough night?"

After a heavy, almost theatrical, sigh, he started speaking to me with his erudite, smoke-hued voice. "Well, I had just come out of rehearsing an opera, and I walk into _this_." After a pause, he attempted to sound less gruff. "Look. I'm sorry. Nothing personal. It's just been a long day. When you reach the mid-century point, and have adulation upon adulation, obligation after obligation, heaped upon you, it can get wearing."

"What opera were you doing? _Cav_?"

"_Fidelio_," he replied, his voice starting to sound relaxed.

"It's a shame Beethoven didn't write any other operas," I said.

Bernstein nodded. "It's a _damn_ shame. But, _Fidelio_ is all we have, as far as his operatic output is concerned."

"I guess it's like saying Wagner should have written more symphonies."

Bernstein smiled. "That's a good one, Mr... What should I call you? Mr. X?"

"Marcus."

"Yes. Marcus."

That may not have been as legendary as Bernstein's _I dig absolutely_ moment with Cox, but I noticed that Mr. Wolfe started scribbling every word (or some semblance thereof) onto his notepad.

"Tell me, Marcus. I'm assuming that you enjoy classical music and opera."

"Yes, I do."

"What kinds?"

"Beethoven and Wagner, among others. My tastes are more in the German tradition. Especially in opera."

Bernstein kept nodding, absolutely digging my words.

So did Mr. Wolfe.

"Tell me," he started again, "how do Beethoven and Wagner fit into your _weltanschuang_? Your worldview, as a Black Panther."

I should have expected such a question from "Mr. Let's Find Out," as Mr. Wolfe would dub Bernstein. Despite my shock, the words just poured out. "Well, Beethoven and Wagner were both political revolutionaries in their times. I'm sure if they were both around today, they would have attended this party."

Resting his chin on his left hand, the right one still holding his cigarette, Bernstein's eyes flashed newly-found energy. "I'm sure they would have. But, would an unrepentant racist like Wagner have attended _this_ event?"

A tricky question, but the impending damage to Mr. Bernstein's reputation had already been done earlier in the evening. Why would a metaphorical tiger let a poor wounded creature suffer? "Wagner believed in the superiority of the German race, yes. But his main targets are the same as those of the Panthers. The Zionists who are in league with those who hold all the wealth. In that context, I think he would have chosen our side, because Zionists support an unequal balance of power that benefits them."

Bernstein puffed pensively on his cigarette. Taking it out of his mouth, he said, "But that's the thing. Many of the people who came here tonight, donating money to support your cause, are Jewish. Can't you see the irony of the whole thing?"

"I'm talking about Zionists. Not about individual Jews like yourself, Mr. Bernstein."

"But would Wagner want to be surrounded by a bunch of Jews? And blacks?"

"That I cannot determine."

Shaking his head, Bernstein sighed again. "I guess that's too abstract an issue to get into. But what of Wagner? I don't understand his pull on me, as a Jew." Moving closer, he said, "You know, Marcus, one of my main dreams in life is to conduct a complete recording of _Tristan und Isolde_. To be preserved for _posterity_. I want it to be part of my legacy. Something I want to be remembered for. Oh, sure, I wrote _West Side Story_. But that was just the music."

"_Just_ the music?" How could he downplay his contribution to one of the most renowned musicals ever written?

"What I mean is, compared with the ambition of Wagner with _Tristan_. I wrote 90 minutes of music. He wrote four hours of music _and words_. Maybe not the greatest words in the world. But, the music, along with the opera's profound philosophical and psychological impetus, redeems them. Just as the opera can redeem Wagner the man." Lifting his arms suddenly from the arms of the chair, Bernstein started flailing them and his cigarette in the air. "_That_'s what _Tristan_'s all about. The very _universal_ nature of his music..." Grasping my arm, he added, "Maybe that's it! With you. With me. With anyone who gets seduced by Wagner's music. Jew or Panther. Jew or Fascist." Letting go, he added, "His music speaks about the brotherhood of man, even if the anti-Semitic tracts he wrote contradicted all that."

More or less following Bernstein's ruminations, I gave him a few token nods.

Nose still in his notepad, Wolfe started looking non-plussed.

"_Tristan _is a sacred work, Marcus. No less sacred than _Parsifal_, but with a less ambivalent affirmation of earthly pleasures." Contemplating his cigarette, Bernstein added, "I can only hope that my health will hold out long enough for me to record _Tristan _when I feel ready. I've been told more than once that I'd be dead from emphysema within a few years."

"Why not record _Tristan_ now? I would be interested in hearing your interpretation."

"I'm not ready yet. It is the crux of all opera, from Monteverdi to today, and perhaps into the future. That is, unless the habits of the Babbits take hold."

"Do you plan on recording any other operas soon. Maybe _Fidelio_? It would be appropriate this year."

"_Der Rosenkavalier_," Bernstein replied. "The Viennese love me for it, despite themselves. Despite their initial hostility towards Mahler, whom they seem to have forgotten was one of their own, regardless of whether he was a Jew or not." Leaning towards me as if I had become some kind of confidant, he added, "They let me into their lair, you know. A quarter-century ago, they probably couldn't have cared less that my people, maybe even some of my relatives, were being shipped off to die."

"Why _Rosenkavalier_?" I asked.

"Why _not_?"

"What about Mohammed?"

"Who?"

"_Der kleine Neger_, who almost walks in on the Marschallin and Octavian in bed near the beginning. The one who scampers in after the end of the trio to fetch the handkerchief."

"What are you driving at?" Bernstein asked, his voice becoming agitated again, though not as weary as when I first met him.

"How could you record an opera with a stereotype of a black person, and yet participate in a fundraising event for the Black Panthers?"

A smile started forming behind Wolfe's notepad, but he harnessed it into more furious jotting.

After taking a long puff from his cigarette, he rambled some possibilities. "I don't know. It was written in the context of the times. But the beauty of the music. The waltzes. The trio!" He abruptly stopped. After a pause, he added, "Look. I appreciate our conversation, don't get me wrong."

Mission accomplished, I guess, though the conversation went a direction I had not intended.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Bernstein. I'm just curious..."

Rising from his armchair, Bernstein said, "I'm not looking for an easy way out. But it's late, and I'm exhausted. As you might be able to tell." Gesturing towards the door, he added, "Please."

I nodded, then turned around and walked to the door.

Wolfe wrapped up his lapping up of our conversation.


	5. Falling Veils

**Department of Justice Building  
20 January 1970**

After my return from New York, Spender called me into his office. That was the first time I had gone in there, and it began the trend of reporting to him alone without the presence of Hoover and Tolson.

As a Morley emitted smoke in his ashtray, Spender motioned for me to sit in one of the chairs in front of his desk. "First of all, Mr. LeRoi, I must say that I enjoyed hearing about your conversation with Mr. Bernstein."

"What do you mean?"

As Spender inevitably grabbed his cigarette, he said, "Oh. A little miscommunication, though it was to ensure that no one knew who was a plant." After taking the first drag of our meeting, he added, "Don't worry. It won't appear in print. We cannot risk your exposure. You're too valuable to us."

"Does this mean I'm still on the Panther assignment?"

"For the time being. However, we have other things in mind for you as the Panthers decline in influence."

"And what are they?"

Smiling, Spender asked, "Do you remember our conversation last month, when I assigned you to the Bernsteins' _soiree_?

"Some of it. Is there some aspect to which you're alluding?"

"Remember when we were discussing _2001_, and I asked you what you thought about the possibility of extraterrestrial life?"

"Not really." After a few moments of watching Spender smoke, I asked, "What does that have to do with my next assignment?"

"_There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy_. What does that mean to you, Mr. LeRoi?"

"It's from _Hamlet_." For the first time, I acknowledged a slight tingling of impatience. "What's your point, Spender?"

"Your answer is too factual, too conventional. Not worthy of someone like yourself."

"Does Shakespeare have anything to do with my next assignment?"

"As much as watching _Yojimbo_ did for your current assignment." Setting the cigarette back in his ashtray, he added, "You have sympathy for the Panthers."

Surprised, I asked, "What makes you think that?"

"I can tell. You buy into their rhetoric to some degree."

"Well, it's hard to argue against the good works they have done in various communities, and it's easy to understand the pent-up anger after years of oppression and neglect of the black community." As I watched Spender nod his head, I asked, "You still want me to continue working for you?"

"As I mentioned to you before, you cannot hate your enemies. In fact, you need to have just the right amount of sympathy for them." Picking up his cigarette from the ashtray and contemplating it, Spender said, "It gives you the ability to understand them, and you can more easily defeat them." After taking a puff, he added, "Over the past decade, there have been quite a few important men. Their words and actions led other important men to believe that they posed a threat to this country. That they would get in the way of longer-term goals for our country, and that their actions would disrupt long-term stability." Another puff, this one with a slightly nervous edge. "I actually had some sympathy for them. But they went too far in their rhetoric, and they became lightning rods." He took a drag that lasted several seconds, then waited a few moments before saying, "It was my job to... to take care of them."

"Can you be sure that what happened had the intended effect?"

"There were some short-term pains. National grief, urban unrest."

With those words, I finally realized whom Spender might have "taken care of."

"Of course, as they always do, things have started to stabilize," Spender continued. "The last few years have been pretty rough, and a few matters still need ironed out, but things should be well by mid-decade. If everything is guided correctly."

"So, what about Vietnam? Speaking for myself, I have heard for the past few years that things are not going well over there, and the country has turned more and more against the war."

"You're entitled to your opinion, Mr. LeRoi," Spender said. "But, you should know better than to believe that Uncle Walt gives the complete gospel truth."

"So, another batch of 18 year-old men gets sent over there to fight in a war we seem to be losing?"

After puffing on his cigarette, Spender said, "Whatever the outcome, the experience will toughen those 18 year-old boys. Make them into real men. Who knows? Perhaps one of them will emerge from that crucible and become a vital asset to our cause." Pointing his cigarette at me, he added, "Look how you turned out."

"They aren't all like me."

"In any case, Mr. LeRoi, when you begin your next assignment, you will understand why these things had to happen. The work you will participate in has substantially greater long-term importance than a few unfortunate events." With a slight smile, Spender added, "If it helps reassure you, we do have a plan that could give us an edge in Vietnam."

"How's that?"

"In a few months, we will be performing an experiment on a control group of military recruits in all branches of the military. They will all be volunteers."

"What kind of experiment?"

"We hope to create an elite force of so-called 'super soldiers.' I know the term sounds like something from a bad science fiction movie, but the idea is not as grandiose as it sounds. The experiment will be led by Dr. Saul Grissom, a specialist in sleep disorders."

"Will he be helping them get a better night's sleep out in the field? Because when the Viet Cong ambushes them, they had better be fully awake."

"Actually, Dr. Grissom will be doing the reverse. If all goes well, the soldiers who volunteer for this experiment will not need sleep. That way, they will be ready to fight anytime."

"And if it succeeds?"

"We will have excellent protoypes for handling any kind of conflict."

"What if it fails?"

Spender gave me a blank stare. "Failure is not an option. That is why we have Dr. Grissom leading the experiment."

"But how can you alter human physiology like that? There would have to be some long-term consequences."

"As I said, that's why we brought in an expert to work on this. He has already performed the procedure on lab animals, and he has assured us that the results seem promising."

I stared at Spender for a few moments. First he brings up extraterrestrials for the second time within a month, and then he talks about an experiment to deprive soldiers of sleep. I could only imagine the level of sympathy he might have shared with the hippies; he may have been against their ideas, but maybe his cigarettes contained some of the same substances they used.

Spender smiled. "I know this all seems far-fetched, Mr. LeRoi. In time, you will learn of the veracity of things that most people can only dream about." With the final Morley drag of our meeting, he added, "But, you have a radical militant group to help us bring down. Once that's done, we will be meeting a lot more frequently."

**_To be continued..._**


	6. Ora e per sempre addio sante memorie

**14 October 1973**

For whatever reason, I imagined that Spender would meet with me immediately after I had completed the work of infiltrating and discrediting the Black Panthers. However, except for the occasional token nod of sorts that he would give me in the hallways of the Department of Justice, we had no contact for over three years. I suspected that Hoover's passing earlier the previous year, which occurred around the same time I was taken off my Panthers assignment, had something to do with it. After all, the man dominated the FBI for nearly half a century.

In the interim, I ended up on a number of seemingly similar surveillance tasks. Listening to vague conversations involving an array of mundane criminal activities. Putting up with cracker agents, who tried to imitate the opening notes from _Shaft _whenever I arrived for duty. But I wasn't a stylish New York City cop with a catchy tune and a way with the ladies. I was just another shadow man, going home alone to my apartment every night and avoiding the network news reports about yet more taped conversations involving high-level criminal activity. As a form of refuge from the malaise that had slowly suffocated the promise of the prior decade, I only had my phonograph and opera recordings. It probably surprised the hell out of my cracker surveillance friends when I began singing from Verdi's _Otello_. If they had known better, they probably would have started referring to me as Paul Robeson.

My patience in trying to determine Spender's motivations and the cryptic nature of our last conversation had begun to wear down as well. Whatever happened to the so-called "super soldiers" Spender talked about for boosting our chances in Vietnam? Was it all a fantasy? Kissinger negotiated a peace treaty with Vietnam, and Nixon went to China. (How someone turned that into an opera, I don't know.) But I knew better than to make my consternation apparent. After all, testing one's patience is a way of making sure that one can maintain their cool in high pressure situations.

I sensed that I was being groomed for something important. Why else would Spender allude to bizarre claims, and then not see me for many years? Was it to determine if I could take them with a straight face? If I could manage that, I could face anything.

* * *

Even in my line of work, hearing knocking on your door at six o'clock on a Sunday morning is highly unusual. Even rarer are the times when they sound intense. In this case, I heard a sequence of four, repeated over and over. Almost deliberate. The first three rapid, with a fourth for punctuation.

_Poundpoundpound POUND. _

_Poundpoundpound POUND. _

Even people who don't know classical music know the opening of Beethoven's Fifth Symphony. They might also know the apocryphal story about it; that the first four notes were meant to signify Fate, knocking on one's door. It very well could have been someone playing a deliberate prank specifically on me, so I felt compelled to take it seriously. I pulled on my robe, removed my pistol from its holder, and positioned myself to the side of the door.

"Who is it?" I asked, aiming the pistol at eye level.

_There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy_.

Recognizing the familiar smoke-tinged voice slurring from the other side, I lowered my gun and set it in the pocket of my robe as I unlocked the door. When I first saw Spender, he looked as though he had not slept the entire night. There was also a slight hint of alcohol on his breath.

As Spender staggered into the apartment, I asked, "What's going on? We haven't…"

"Is anyone else here?" he asked, trying mostly with success to disguise not only his drunkenness, but also his apprehension about something.

"No," I replied, sounding most likely confused as he crashed into one of my chairs. "What are you doing here?"

Spender rested his head in his hands. I began to think he was going to vomit all over the floor.

"The day has come," he moaned, shaking his head. "We had to make a deal with them."

"What? Them who? The Vietnamese.? The Chinese? The Soviets? Is it something about the Yom Kippur War?"

Despite his state, Spender remained silent as he pulled out a cigarette. Spender began to fumble with his lighter, prompting me to run over and take it from his free hand. After I lit his cigarette, he mumbled, "Thank you."

I ran into the kitchen, calling out to him, "I'm getting something you can use as an ashtray."

"That's the least of our worries," he called out.

"Not if the apartment catches on fire," I replied, rushing in with a small glass and setting it on the table.

"That whole world will be on fire if we don't do what they say."

"What?" I asked, sitting in another chair across from Spender as I tried to conceal the vague sense of existential dread pervading my very being. "Is someone threatening nuclear war?"

"This is a completely different threat."

Even in his state of inebriation, Spender demonstrated his penchant for making vague statements. Maybe it had become a habit from his many years in the Bureau. At this point, it felt tempting to make my dwindling patience known to Spender. On the other hand, perhaps this was yet another part of the elaborate game that I needed to play, with listening to the nonsense of a drunken man as one of the unwritten rules.

"I can't think of anything worse."

"At least with nuclear war, it would be something we brought upon ourselves."

"Is that supposed to be better?" I asked, trying to contain my incredulity.

"They want to colonize us. Use us as slaves."

"Excuse me?" I asked, caught completely off guard by Spender's response.

"That's the deal we made. To continue work on a hybrid that would…" He trailed off, looking over at me. "I'm sorry to be telling you this right now." Spender flung himself up from the chair, like a ragdoll enhanced with gears. "It must not make any sense, me being like this, and you don't believe it." For emphasis, he slapped both hands above his stomach. "You know where I am. Monday morning. Nine o'clock." As he wandered to the front of my apartment, I followed Spender to let him out. Before I opened the door, however, he added, "There's time that has been bought, of course. But you're going to Boston after we meet. Just to make sure an important piece of the plan goes as… planned. And don't worry. Lenny will be there, too. He's giving a big talk at Harvard about Chomsky and music. Maybe you can kill two birds with one _stein_. Between those two, there has to be something subversive in that."

I nodded once, with grave earnestness. "I will fulfill the mission to the best of my ability."

When I opened the door for Spender, he slapped my shoulder. "Of course you will. Tomorrow morning."

After he somehow perambulated through the doorframe into the hallway, I shut the door and pondered how this would all sound in just over 24 hours. Hopefully, he would be in his office as stated, and make everything clearer. After all, what I heard that morning made absolutely no sense. Was I on one mission or two? What was all this talk about colonization and hybrids and slaves? Was it somehow connected with the "super soldiers," which Spender somehow managed not to bring up even once (unless he was too incoherent to make their possible relevance known).

With Spender's vague and inebriated statements, I spent most of the day trying to decipher what they meant. Regardless of his state, they sounded like rantings dreamed up by an overactive imagination, with alcohol fueling their incredibility. I only learned much later of his aspiration to become a novelist, specializing in action stories. If I had known that at the time, it would have made perfect sense.

I only learned about Spender's forays into fiction writing much later. By that time, the cliché about truth being stranger than fiction proved more real than I could have imagined.


End file.
